


hope is a four-letter word

by Ingi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Banter, Cheating, Codependency, Feelings, Isolation, M/M, Minor George Weasley/Original Female Character(s), Non-Graphic Smut, Pining, Relationship Reveal, Something Made Them Do It, Vaguely magical Twin Connexion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 09:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15682758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingi/pseuds/Ingi
Summary: "I would always choose you," George says.If choice were ever a possibility, he means. If choosing Fred weren't equal to choosing himself, or his own arm, or his own heart.





	hope is a four-letter word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Potoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potoo/gifts).



> A gift for Potoo - I've tried to hit pretty much all of your likes, so this will either be great or a disaster. Fingers crossed for the former!
> 
> The title comes from "Counting Stars", by OneRepublic.

At some point, when they're still very young children, someone—an older cousin, or perhaps a family friend, Fred doesn't quite remember—squats down to look at them in the eyes, one after the other, and says, quietly,

"You're _not_ the same person, you know."

Their mother's shout of _Fredandgeorge_ is still hanging in the air. Fred is two feet away from his twin, they're not touching- but he can still feel two heartbeats in his chest, perfectly synchronized, has George's mild curiosity peeking from the back of his own mind. Sometimes, in the morning, he rubs the sleep out of his eyes and stills for a full second after, startled out of the routine by the disturbing feeling that two of his eyes are missing—they're not, of course - on the other side of the room, George lets his own hands fall and gives him a perplexed half-smile—.

"'course not," Fred says, not entirely sure he's telling the truth.

He wraps his fingers around George's and half-turns, wanting to see if his twin believes it, if this outsider has managed to weave his way into their relationship and tut at it convincingly enough for George to put some distance between them, even if just a little.

"'course not," George repeats, a beat too late for their voices to merge into one. But it sounds like a question.

Fred smiles, and pulls him away before the wizard can question them further.

 

 

 

It is not until they're fifteen that Fred begins to be afraid of what that years-old decision will cost him.

He _watches_ George, and it's not like he's always done it, with that mix of affection and need to protect— _Why, I have to make sure my dearest younger brother is safe, 'course_ , he says, sometimes, and grins when George inevitably kicks him in the back of the knee and laughs, _You were only born first because your brain couldn't develop any further, Forge_ —. He watches and his gaze trips over George's lips and stays there, for long enough that thick dread begins to stick to his throat, and his fingers still halfway to his twin more often than not, lightly shaking, because every touch means _more_ now, and Fred doesn't know how to stop it - and George will be able to tell—he always is—.

Fred can't even _wank_ anymore. He's all too aware of his own body, and if he closes his eyes he instantly falls into the fantasy that he's with George, but if he doesn't, he finds himself believing that he _is_ George, George wanking, and that might just be even worse.

Now, if they were purebloods of the snotty Muggle-hating kind, and barking mad on top of that, Fred's- _obsession_ would be perfectly normal, and encouraged, even. But they're not, and Fred knows deep in his bones that it's unnatural, that it can never be allowed to touch George.

So he tries to put some space between them, even though it feels like his lungs are caving in, because all the whispers were right, after all - what they have, it's not right—even if not having it is what feels wrongest of all—. He starts walking one step apart from his twin, and always a half-step behind or forward—never really together, never aligned—. He leans away from his twin's casual touches, faking obliviousness, and ignores George's alarmed glances. He makes plans with other people, plans to which George is not invited, and even befriends Kenneth Towler—who thoroughly hates George, for some unholy reason - perhaps because he mistakenly believes him the one to put Bulbadox powder in his pyjamas back on First year—.

That all lasts for about three weeks, after which Fred is so tense—and his chest so constricted by the lack of George—that there are rumours in Hogwarts of some Slytherin or another Polyjuicing into him to sink his good-natured reputation. But it does not end because of that. It ends because George locks them both in the changing rooms after a Quidditch match and stares at him from the door, with a bitter smile that doesn't belong in his face.

"Been listening to Towler lately, haven't you, Freddie?" he says. "Which one of my many flaws is he writing hate-poetry over this week?"

Fred had not once stopped to consider that George might miss _him_ like he was missed.

"I wouldn't know," he replies, heart beating violently against his ribs in a rhythm he could never not recognise. "When he opens his mouth, I just put my hands over my ears and try to remember Binns' _fascinating_ lecture on the Giant Wars. All he says is tripe, anyway."

George's smile is wide and real, this time, and when he approaches, Fred takes his hands and tugs him close instinctively, until his twin's half-sitting on top of him on one of the benches and their foreheads are mashed together, and they're breathing the same air again. He doesn't apologise, but he curls a hand around his twin's side and tangles the fingers of the other in George's hair, which makes George laugh and grab his shoulders, nails digging into Fred's flesh in a way that can't possibly be all accidental.

"Are you done being an arse?" George huffs. "Percy's a hairbreadth away from fighting you for his turf."

"I respectfully retire from the competition," Fred says. He would mock-bow, but he's—fortunately—tangled with his twin and his movement is rather limited at the moment. "My loss."

And it is, but-

Fred understands, now, that the other option is worse.

 

 

 

In Seventh year, Fred dates a Gryffindor girl for two whole months before it all goes down in flames.

George, who seemed rather taken with the girl's sister—has been dating her for nearly a month, too—, breaks up with her a day later. He still spends most of his time patting Fred in the back and being horribly supportive about the whole thing, which makes Fred feel sick, because while George prattles on about Fred's ex-girlfriend and how she clearly still loves him and would have to be barmy not to take him back, all Fred's thinking about is George's mouth.

And then Oliver Wood, forgetting rather important concepts like _consent_ and _free will_ in his urge for Fred to stop moping and cocking up in the Quidditch pitch, procures himself some kind of—definitely illegal—love-related potion and doses Fred's pumpkin juice with it without warning.

Fred doesn't know what the potion _does_ , exactly, but he's locked in the Gryffindor dorms with George, trying to fix one of their latest inventions for Wizard Wheezes so it stops exploding in their customers' faces—when it's not supposed to, in any case—, when his skin starts burning, and his chest starts aching, and through slightly blurry vision he realises that George is staring at him with the very same expression that Fred expects to find in his own face.

"Please," one of them says, or possibly both at the same time.

"This is- I think Wood-" Fred tries to explain, but he's so hard he can't think, and George is still _staring_.

"That's fine," he says, clearly getting what Fred means. "That's fine- We don't know what it'll do, Fred-"

Fred can't even begin to imagine a hex painful enough to pay Wood back for this, he doubts something remotely appropiate exists yet. But it will, if Fred has any say in it, because George- George is affected by this too, whatever it is, and he- he's right, they can't risk the consequences of resisting it, not when they don't even know what those are.

But he still waits for George, because he will _not_ be the one to lead them in this.

And George pushes their notes to the floor and crawls closer to Fred, leaning in until their mouths are touching. They exhale at the same time, half-relief and half-determination, and when Fred tilts his head and kisses his twin for real, George tastes exactly as he'd always thought he would. And it feels _right_ , too, it feels like something they should be doing, and Fred wonders, distantly, how much of that is the potion and how much is his own depravity.

They don't do much.

George seems to be taking it in stride, but Fred is shaking so violently that he can feel his twin's concern in the back of his mind. He doesn't understand that it's not that Fred doesn't _want_ \- it's that he wants too much.

They rub against each other slowly, George breathing hotly into Fred's mouth, and Fred has never been happier or harder in his life—or this overcome with shame and dread, either—. And after they come, still fully clothed, George makes this _face_ , like he's confused and terrified that it happened at all, and Fred wants so very badly to kiss the fear out of him.

But he doesn't, of course.

He hugs his twin roughly enough to be unequivocally platonic, and forces himself to laugh.

"Good stuff, uh, Georgie?" he says. "Maybe we should ask Wood for his provider- after we prank him to death, I mean."

"Yeah," George replies, after a beat. "Maybe we should."

They never speak of it again.

 

 

 

After Hogwarts, they set up Wizard Wheezes officially.

George's ex-girlfriend is one of their first costumers, and the moment she walks into the shop, Fred _knows_. He freezes behind the counter and silently watches as the last pieces of his dark, carefully hidden hope are smashed into nothing.

George marries Avery Grimm barely seven months later, in a small ceremony in the Burrow, with Fred as his best man.

Fred is grinning the whole time, and if his smile looks strange and wooden, no one notices. Or rather- they don't _seem_ to notice, but late into the night, hours after George and his wife disappear—Fred having to fight the urge to follow, trying to ignore the reality in front of him—, the kitchen is silent and still, and Fred is nursing a drink when his father taps him on the shoulder.

"Freddie," he says, red-faced from the wine but still very much sober. "You've got to let him go. This thing of yours- you know your mother never gave it too much thought, she always wants to believe her best of everyone, but- it's not right, Freddie, do you understand? Your brother has the right to be happy without you. And _you_ should be happy for him, too."

"I am, Dad," Fred replies, putting his glass down. He tries the smile on for size again, but it hurts everywhere and doesn't fit right, so he just lets it fall. "George's married, not dead, _Merlin_."

"I'm just saying- you've always had this relationship, Fred, that I don't think is-"

"We're twins," Fred says, harsher than he means to, and finally manages to twist his face into something resembling his usual expression. "You're drunk, Dad," he adds, aiming for cheery. "Don't worry, I won't tell Mum- I think she's rather tipsy herself. Is this a good time to tell you there was an accident with Aunt Griselda's porcelain sheep before the reception?"

It's misdirection, but it's also true—something that must show in his face, which seems dead set on putting him on the spot today—, and it startles Arthur Weasley enough for Fred to be able to escape upstairs.

Fred waits weeks for George to move out of their little apartment on top of Wizard Wheezes, to move in with his _wife_ , but that moment never comes. Instead, George grabs him by the arm one day, impish smile firmly on place, and asks if they can at last buy that second mattress they've been talking about forever so he can move there with Avery. The apartment had come with two bedrooms, but only one of them was furnished, and they hadn't bothered to do anything about it when they could easily share a bed. And it's been killing Fred, it really has, but now he realises he's still bracing himself for the impact, getting ready to have George further away than they've ever been before.

It's clearly not far enough for Avery.

The very first day she moves in with them, Fred hears her argue with his twin in the other bedroom—the walls are paper-thin and Fred's own room is so _quiet_ —, something about codependency and space and intimacy. _God_ , she says, muggleborn to the bone, _it's taken me nearly a month to even convince you not to share a bed with him. I don't even know- just what were you expecting? Some sort of group cuddling session? I married you, not him_. And George, sounding every bit as tense and frustrated as Fred knows he is, _He's my twin brother- I told you, you'd sort of marry both of us_. And Avery again, tears colouring her voice, _I didn't think it'd be like this, I didn't- God. Is this- is this a wizard thing? You're two successful men, you can afford having separate apartments- I don't understand_. And George, gentle where Fred would have snapped, _It's a twin thing, Avery, it's- I don't think you can understand_.

Fred closes his eyes and focuses on the beat of his own heart.

If George were here, Fred would know what to do. He'd know how to fix it, how to make George happy- that's what he's always been best at, in the end. But then again, if George _were_ here, there'd be a whole lot more of yelling.

In the morning, Fred watches Avery carefully, looking for signs that she's going to leave. But even before she smiles at him, tired and resigned, he already knows. And he finds that he cannot hate her, because she's only doing what he himself does - choosing George, every time, despite everything.

 

 

 

It's two months after George's marriage, and Fred is exposed in the most ridiculous way possible.

He's sitting on the sofa with George, a wide arrange of potions spread over the coffee table, and handling their latest invention. He'd usually be wearing magic-repelling gloves for this, but George's the one who made all the potions this time and he's assured him they're not dangerous. The artefact itself isn't, either, for once—they took the idea from Muggle bath bombs, so the small purple ball Fred's holding is not supposed to do anything but release a potion when activated—.

"This one's our best bet," George repeats, flicking Fred on the knee when he makes an incredulous noise. He shakes the vial in front of Fred. "We can always make it a set with other potions later, if the concept's popular. But Forge- think about it, we give them the Muggle thing and a colour chart- we can even charge extra for a complete one, and in the basic one we just put pink for romantic, blue for platonic, and black for hate, what about that? And then they gift it to someone, activate it from a distance, and they can know how the person feels about them just by _touching_ them."

"Sounds like something the Ministry would love to ban, Gred."

George only laughs.

"They ban love potions and deadly stuff. This is _completely_ innocent."

"Risky," Fred replies. It's not usually his job to be the reasonable one, but George's very protective of his potions. "Just on the line."

"Innocent," George insists, and pours the entire vial into the ball Fred's holding, careful not to let any spill out of the tiny opening. "We'll have lots of free testers for this one, you'll see."

Fred's half-way through a retort—George already smirking at him at him as he takes the ball from Fred's hands and puts it back on the table—when he looks down, eyes drawn by something bright pink out of his field of vision, and freezes. He'd swear his very pulse stops, which is possibly why George startles and follows his gaze faster than Fred can hide his hands back. His fingers are pink. His fingers are _bright pink_ , and his heart falls to his stomach the second he feels George understanding what that means.

"Did you make the thing with Muggle materials?" George asks, impossibly soft, after a moment.

"It's supposed to-" Fred starts, with a voice he doesn't recognise, too high and panicky.

"Muggle bath bombs melt in water, and some of the potions are water-based," George says. He's still staring at Fred's fingers, down at his lap. "They're- they're not going to wait for an activation spell."

Fred's mind is blank, and he can only watch as his twin reaches out and rests his hand on the vulnerable inside of Fred's arm. The skin there turns pink immediately, a hand-shaped brand revealing just how twisted he has become, and Fred is suffocating, Fred is- it was never supposed to be like this.

"I'm sor-"

George slowly turns his hand around, silent, eyes filled with tears _that Fred put there_.

His palm is pink.

They stare at each other for a long moment, as still and quiet as if one wrong move could break them—and it _could_ —, but it only lasts as long as it takes for George's face to crumple and a pained noise to leave his throat.

"I didn't know," he says, and for once, Fred can't tell what he means.

"You didn't-" Fred starts, and then immediately changes his mind. "I'm-"

"Do you remember," George interrupts, softly, "when Wood gave you that potion- Merlin, I was so ashamed, Freddie. We couldn't risk ignoring it, I knew that - I was fine with that. I wasn't supposed to _like_ it. And it took me months to even realise I wasn't glad Aubrey had dumped you because I liked _her_."

Fred glances back at the palm of his twin's hand, the perfect copy of the pink mark on his own arm. George made the potion too potent - it'll take a whole day for all the pink to disappear.

"This is a terrible idea," he says, through the knot in his throat, even though it feels like tearing his fingers away one by one from the one thing that can save his life. "It's dangerous. It's- it's reckless. George-"

But George only smiles, eyes suddenly clear and calm, begging for Fred to _understand_.

"Isn't that what we do, Freddie?"

Fred swallows once, twice, and reaches out.

 

 

 

Hours later, Avery Grimm walks into the living room and immediately stops in her tracks.

Fred is the one facing the door, and he watches as her eyes slowly fill up with tears, not knowing a single thing he could possibly say to her. He knows what they look like - and he's caught enough people in Hogwarts after a heavy snogging session to realise the look is not easy to misinterpret.

They really should've left the sofa, at least.

As it is, Avery has the perfect view of her husband— _he was my twin first_ , Fred thinks, instinctively—curled around Fred, face buried into his neck, a hand resting on the inside of Fred's thigh. They both still have their pants on, but there's not much more that can be said in their favour. And as if that weren't enough, they're smudged bright pink _all over_.

"Oh, God," she whispers.

By the time it takes George to sit up to follow her voice, she has already turned on her heels and left.

Fred is half-expecting his twin to go after her, but he only lays back against Fred and sighs deeply, allowing Fred to take his hand.

"Mum is not going to be happy," George says, casually.

"No, I expect not," Fred replies, although there's much more than he'd like to say. His twin will know, either way.

George's pulse is steady, and the regret that it's singing of is not about them at all. Every one of Fred's heartbeats is a plea, but under them there's a symphony of _finally, yes, finally, this is what it was meant to be all along_.

"I would always choose you," George says.

If choice were ever a possibility, he means. If choosing Fred weren't equal to choosing himself, or his own arm, or his own heart.

 

 

 

George Weasley and Avery Grimm end their marriage two months and twelve days after it'd started.

As a result, Mum doesn't talk to him—or to Fred, because she's never been able to tell the difference, if there's any—for almost two weeks, and then not at all, after Dad tells her about his suspicions. Fred only knows of this because, as it turns out, Dad told _the entire family_ , and he receives three separate owls asking him about it.

"What in the name of Merlin's frilly knickers am I supposed to reply to this?" Fred asks, scowling at the letters on the kitchen counter.

"The _name_ of Merlin's knickers?" George replies, grinning.

"He sounds like the sort of folk to name his pants."

" _No one_ is that sort of folk, Forge."

Fred waves it away, and then waves the letters at George's face.

"Reply. What."

George takes the letters from Fred's hand and smacks him with them, but after that he shrugs and drops them back on the counter.

"I don't expect it'll make much of a difference."

And it doesn't.

One by one, Fred sends the replies, and one by one, the rejection comes. Twice, in another letter—Bill and Charlie, the former of which sends his letter with a rather aggressive hawk—, and once through total silence—Ginny had always been the cleverest of them all—. No one else writes to them. Ron shows up in their apartment once, but he goes green the second George confirms the news and Disapparates before anything else can be said.

"So we have Dragon Pox now, don't we?" George tells Fred, scowling.

Fred grins, presses his smile into George's collarbone.

"Doesn't matter," he says. "We won't have to set up the Floo after all."

"No one worth visiting," George agrees.

Fred thinks of the first time—that he remembers—that someone had tried to tear them apart, back when they were children. He remembers his fear, his fingers clinging to George's, the wizard's apprehensive eyes.

 _There was never any doubt_ , he'd like to tell him now, as George's hands curl around his ribs. _There was never any other way_.

 

 

 


End file.
